


Bounds

by Kerfunkulus



Series: Bound [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Implied Relationships, M/M, Poetry, Rhyming, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 16:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5424143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerfunkulus/pseuds/Kerfunkulus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Severus Snape endures an indignity with all his usual grace and good humour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bounds

When on a dank and peaceful night  
with mewling brats he's through,  
and monsters have been put to bed,  
there's nothing left to do  
but stand before his work stained bench  
and cut, and slice, and brew. 

This night's creation's not gone well.  
The rhythm's gone off track.  
And so he gathers silver knives  
and sickles; vials; a sack;  
And gracefully he glides out to...  
...the wards, which push him back.

He casts himself down memory's path  
to NEWTS in Ancient Runes;  
to hard won knowledge dredged up from  
dark, dessicated tomes.  
He circles once, he circles twice,  
and slips between the lines.

He feels along a braided flame  
using the strands to guide  
him past the barbed enchantments which  
within their fibres hide  
and to the knotted roots of spells...  
...which fling him back inside.

He rights himself, he clears his mind  
of every ill intent  
He meekly opens up his thoughts:  
"He said, before he went  
he wanted it done sooner than  
this error would allow".

"Just a few steps outside the gates  
lies fallen thestral hide  
and just one sliver would set right  
the potion that's inside."  
He reaches for the iron door -  
the handle promptly hides.  


And so at last there is no choice  
but to clamp down his pride.  
His stride a steady metronome  
he glides around the side  
of frost-crisp poison beds and vines;  
past monkshood, cut and dried.

Where yet another servant  
of the old man calls his own  
a hovel fit for muggles  
crudely hewn of jagged stone.  
He raps upon the heavy door...  
and finds that no-one's home.

His feet pounding more harshly now  
he fleetly makes his way  
to that one place he _is _allowed__  
to always be and stay.  
Headmaster's study, Master's bed...  
...of course. He's still away.

So, fearing now the potion's loss  
he rushes in despair  
up past the hall, up through the school,  
up into frosty air  
atop the tallest tower and...  
of course, there's no one there.

He stirs it once, he stirs it twice,  
and makes the balance new.  
Adjusts the flame, removes a stain,  
and reinvents the brew.  
And waits and watches, helplessly,  
until the night is through.

He waits and watches through the night  
until the sky turns red;  
beats at the living stones he knows  
care nothing for his dread  
but only for those dunderheads  
who slumber in their beds. 

And even after all is done  
he still has to endure:  
a mess of first years which contrives  
to somehow manage to  
bypass all instruments and make  
the very walls impure.

An old fool who, his failure known  
won't even deign to judge.  
But attempts ludicrous comfort  
with a tray of tea and fudge;  
the debris of a wasted night;  
and in his cauldron, sludge.


End file.
